ᯓ★ The year was 1880, and in towns like yours, status meant everything.

Rich stayed with rich.

Poor stayed grateful.

And girls like you certainly did not get courted by boys like Rafe Cameron.

The Camerons practically owned half the county—land stretching farther than the eye could see, horses worth more than most people’s homes, and enough money that folks stood straighter whenever Ward Cameron walked into town.

Meanwhile, your family owned a tiny farm just outside the main roads.

A small wooden house, a chicken coop that constantly needed fixing, fields that only did well when the weather felt merciful.

You spent most mornings with dirt beneath your fingernails and your skirts dusted in flour from helping your mother bake.

And somehow—Rafe Cameron noticed you anyway.

⋆˙⟡ —

The first time he really spoke to you was at the town market.

You were trying to carry two baskets of produce while arguing prices with an older woman who insisted your peaches were “too bruised.”

“They are perfectly fine peaches, Miss Baker,” you huffed.

“You say that every week.”

“Because it’s true every week.”

That’s when a gloved hand reached beside you and placed a few extra coins onto the table.

“I’ll take the whole basket.”

You looked up immediately.

Rafe Cameron stood there in a dark vest and polished boots, looking painfully out of place beside crates of vegetables and muddy streets.

Miss Baker nearly choked.

You blinked. “You don’t even like peaches.”

Rafe shrugged lazily. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

You narrowed your eyes instantly. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No,” he drawled, lips twitching slightly. “I simply think you are more entertainin’ than most folks in this town.”

⋆˙⟡ —

After that, he appeared everywhere. At Sunday sermons. Outside the general store.

Leaning against fences near your farm like he had every reason in the world to be there.

The entire town noticed.

Especially because Rafe Cameron was courting you.

Properly.

Showing up with flowers, offering to walk you home, asking your father permission to take you riding.

People whispered constantly, especially girls at your school. “Poor girl’s gonna get her heart broken.” “He’ll get bored eventually.” “Cameron boys marry status, not farmers’ daughters.”

Your mother heard all of it. So did you.

Which was exactly why you tried keeping your distance.

“You ought not be here so often,” you told him one evening while hanging laundry behind the house.

Rafe sat lazily atop the fence watching you. “And why’s that?”

“You know why.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You care too much about gossip.”

You laughed softly. “And you care too little.”

That shut him up for a moment. Because it was true.

He would never understand what it felt like to have your entire life decided by what you could afford.

Still—he kept coming back.

And the more he did, the harder it became to ignore him.

You started waiting for the sound of his horse approaching, started smiling before he even said a word, started letting him help with chores despite how terrible he was at them.

“You’re holdin’ the chicken wrong,” you laughed one afternoon.

“It’s a chicken,” Rafe muttered while struggling to keep it from flapping away. “Why’s it so angry?”

“Probably because a rich boy’s touchin’ it.”

He faked a scowl while you smiled before you could stop yourself.

And Rafe noticed immediately—God, he always noticed.

⋆˙⟡ —

One evening after a school, he walked you home in cool summer air.

Your shoes dangled from your fingers, skirts brushing the dirt path softly.

“You know what people say of us?” you asked after a while.

Rafe glanced sideways at you. “Cannot say I concern myself with it.”

Rafe slowed beside you before taking your slippers gently from your hands.

Changing topic—“I shall see you Sunday,” he said.

You looked up. “At church?”

“No,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Though I expect you there as well.”

“Then where?”

“The fair beside the river.” His voice lowered slightly. “There is to be music. And I was informed young ladies are fond of such things.”